


Pretending

by Michelle1029



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fake Marriage, Jealousy, Jonerys Valentine's Week, Light Angst, Mutual Pining, fake it till they make it, light fluff, season 8 fix-it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-19
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:54:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22798147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Michelle1029/pseuds/Michelle1029
Summary: Their marriage started off fine enough, a politically motivated, well-intentioned union between Daenerys and her Warden of the North. Her former lover and secret nephew, and the only threat to her claim. It was meant to be easy and simple, no matter their complicated past.(Canon right up to 8x3, episode 4 didn’t happen)
Relationships: Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 101
Kudos: 444





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello peeps. I finally get to participate in a jonerys event! Disclaimer: I thought of this yesterday and wrote it up today, so I might go back and refine some things in the future. (typos, of course. Would you expect anything less?). I think it loosely fits into the Arranged/Fake Marriage challenge so why not ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Anyway, I just really enjoy rewriting season 8. I don't know why. I can't unsee it, so I'm hoping that by writing enough season 8 fix-its, I'll eventually forget what actually happened. 
> 
> Here is my third attempt at writing a better ending than d&d, and lets be real, I could have slapped some keys for 10 minutes and it still would have been a better ending. Okay, done being salty, ENJOY!

Their marriage started off fine enough, a politically motivated, well-intentioned union between Daenerys and her Warden of the North. Her former lover and secret nephew, and the only threat to her claim. It was meant to be easy and simple, no matter the complexity of their past.

He insisted on telling his family and she agreed to so long as he allowed her to tell Tyrion. His newly discovered parentage forced a meeting between the two parties, where Sansa Stark spoke the loudest in a matter that didn’t concern her, and Tyrion countered her arguments with the reality of the circumstances of the North. They danced around the obvious solution for days, everyone piecing together his sudden turn to cold aloofness towards her with their shared blood. It was apparent that he was uncomfortable with the idea. Ser Davos was the brave man who brought the idea of _marriage_ forward after all other options were exhausted and the room had fallen silent, all eyes moving between the pair of them to see how they would react. She couldn’t help the hopeful, girlish joy she felt at the idea, but it was tempered quickly by his own blank stare. Neither vocally opposed the idea, and so it soon became the main topic of discussion.

Outside the influence of their advisors, they came to reach their own private terms, some spoken and others not, but terms that would make their marriage a pleasant friendship at best. It was the first time they were truly alone since he’d told her. As they sat feet apart, both unsure of how to act around the other, they allowed themselves to be honest about the prospect of marriage. It pained her to pack away the precious memories of their blissful time together, but she did it anyway because she didn’t want to lose him completely. She couldn’t look back. He was her family, after all, and although she couldn’t love him how she wanted, she would cherish what they now had. He wasn’t cruel like Viserys or a distant dream like Rhaegar. He was _here_ , and his reservations made it impossible to hope for anything more. He understood her need for it as well, and echoed the sentiment, reiterating his admiration and loyalty to her. _I care deeply for you, Daenerys. You’re my family._ She accepted it, but the rejection still hurt. The relief that fell over his face when she didn’t object only stung a little and was soothed by the sweet smile that followed. They promised one another companionship and council, a relationship built on respect that would allow them to be as close as family and nothing more. She couldn’t kiss him as she wanted, but she could hug him close and feel content in his arms. She couldn’t share his bed, but she would share his table and laugh and trade stories and enjoy his company. That would be enough for her. Unspoken was what their marriage _would_ be, a sham. False. For appearance’s sake. It left her with an unwanted, bitter taste in her mouth, but the agreement was necessary for an easy, pleasant union.

In the end, they’d drawn up their own marriage contract suited to their complex terms, much to Tyrion and Sansa’s dismay. She would take on the bulk of the responsibilities of the crown, and he would fall into the background as an advisor to her. _The throne is yours alone, Dany. You’ve earned it._ She was glad for it, he wouldn’t _truly_ be her King, her partner. It was one less thing to lie to herself about _._ Tyrion was more pleased than Sansa was, but neither she nor Jon were open to changes.

They were married underneath the Weirwood tree before they departed Winterfell. On the short walk to his side, she tried her best to ignore the buzzing _rightness_ of it and remind herself that this marriage wasn’t one born out of romantic love. He didn’t ask her with hope and love in his eyes, and she didn’t have tears of happiness fill her own when she said yes. It was carefully orchestrated and born out of necessity. It was only meant to promise peace to the Kingdoms, to remove his threat, and she and Jon were only the pawns needed to make it happen. Still, the intimate connotations of the affair weighed on her mind as they stood together. She compared their joined hands, limp and tentative, to the way they used to hold each other tightly, to white knuckles and exploring fingers. She compared their stiff kiss to the impassioned ones they had shared before. She wondered if his mind wandered as hers did.

Only after the modest wedding feast were they confronted again with their now uncomfortable past. They both knew nothing would happen that night, but they needed to fool their people and play the part. They made their way to his chambers, both looking anywhere but at each other. Once inside, she finally broke the silence by reminding his that his dramatically averted eyes and stammering words weren’t necessary, and they would only serve to halt their steady climb to a comfortable friendship. He sighed out an apology but still insisted on sleeping in his attached solar. She couldn’t sway him on that decision.

After that first night, she hastily returned to her own chambers, not liking how alone she felt in his bed without him. Tyrion didn’t approve, but he couldn’t force them to carry out the façade. It’s not as if it was an unusual arrangement, lords and ladies kept to separate chambers all the time, and not many people would think their decision to do the same was strange. If anything, it worked in their favor. Watching them, their polite distance and appropriate interactions, none of the Northmen could say that their Warden was tricked into her bed or seduced into marriage.

She only had a small underlying fear about the inevitable suspicion their choices would produce. Even in as soon as a few moons, people would begin to question their lack of an heir. Not even an oncoming war for the throne would stop people from criticizing her role as Queen and her ‘duties’ as a wife.

She didn’t share that fear with Jon, though. They were getting better at playing their roles, so much so that it soon it didn’t feel like an act. He was her husband only in name, and although their affair was abruptly and harshly reduced to a forced and awkward acquaintanceship, they were steadily building up to a safe friendship.

It didn’t matter, in the end, her fears were soon discovered to be unfounded. But what they now had gave her a small semblance of happiness, and it was an easy decision to keep her condition from him when they left Winterfell for the long journey south. She had to tell him soon, but a few more days of friendship could make all the difference in his response.

Even in the middle of her own joy, she couldn’t help but feel nervous about his reaction when she couldn’t let it go unaddressed any longer. Their agreement was meant to erase the past and make is easier to move forward, but now they would never be able to forget it. Her packed away memories would now be pulled to the front of her mind and exposed to her every day in the form of their child. She couldn’t trick herself into thinking that their child was a result of political arrangement as their marriage was. Their child was conceived out of love, and it hurt her to think it.

She decided she didn’t care about his reaction; it wouldn’t do anything to dampen her own. Even outside the prospect of _finally_ being able to hold a child of her own in her arms, she couldn’t ignore how well it worked out for everything else. They would have an heir and the problems of the future disappeared. Boy or girl, they would be the next Targaryen to wear the crown.

\-----------------

Their arrangement suffered a slight bump when she finally had to sit him down and tell him. He was angry at her for waiting so long, and his immediate thought was to hold her back from their war with Cersei. _I’ll take out the ballistas with Rhaegal, and you can enter the city once the threat is gone._ It could be done, she supposed, but it would ruin weeks of planning and the surety of her victory. She was the Mother of Dragons, and Jon was only a novice. He could be struck easily by an unseen spear and he _and_ Rhaegal could be lost to her. It was too much of a risk.

If he was happy about the news, she couldn’t tell. She expected reddened cheeks and embarrassment. She expected worry that people would discover that they were once intimate, despite the fact that it was expected of them. She expected him to go on about what people would say despite the fact that no one outside of their circle of close friends and council new his true identity. Instead he fell quickly into the role of a concerned husband, which only confused her. He worried for her safety and questioned her ability to command her armies, which only served to make her see red and shut him out completely.

“ _Don’t_ , Jon. You didn’t think me any less capable before and this changes nothing.” She said through gritted teeth.

He was breathing heavily, out of nerves or anger she couldn’t tell. “It changes _everything_ , Daenerys. You need to be safe and think of—”

“You don’t get to tell me what to do,” she snapped. “If I thought for a _second_ that I would be putting my child in danger, I would back down without hesitation. But I won’t. I know how to take care of myself.”

“ _Our_ child. Not just yours,” he said quietly. “I know you would never knowingly put our child in danger, but as your husband I’m allowed to worry.”

“No, you’re not,” she had a little sympathy for him, but not enough to change her mind. “That isn’t part of our agreement. You can council me, you can suggest it as my advisor, but you don’t get to worry, and I don’t have to listen.”

She left, worried that her voice would waver and reveal her confused emotions to him. She couldn’t show him that part of herself anymore.

After their argument, he pretended like he didn’t know, like he didn’t _care_. It was a good thing, she told herself, but it still hurt. She marveled at the changes of her body alone, she thought back to the short time when they were so happy and resented him for not being there, for not _wanting_ to be. She had to remind herself all over again, she had to pack away all her memories once more because she couldn’t handle them as well as she thought she could when they replayed over and over in her head. It was over, it was the _past_ , and she couldn’t look back.

Save for those bursts of resentment when she was alone, things went on as they had been, but they had lost a bit of their comfortableness. He always left her side looking like he wanted to say more, but he didn’t, and she pretended like she didn’t notice. They were fooling everyone else, it seemed, as no one stared anymore, or watched their movements as if they could ruin everything with a single word.

It saddened her to realize that this would be a common occurrence in their marriage, pretending, never say more than they should to each other. How would it be easy when so many things were left unsaid?

\---------------

Eventually, they built back up to a friendship. Almost as it was before he came to her door all those weeks ago, or as close to it as it could be. They took suppers together most nights, recounted their days in the moving camps, discussed her plans for bettering the city once it was hers, and what he could do to help. They sometimes spoke of things they could do better, if they should appear more affectionate in court, if they should let a bit of their private friendship seep into their politically built union. They eventually decided against it. The world didn’t _need_ to think a certain way about them so long as they appeared to respect one another. The people didn’t care with previous monarchs, and she knew what they had was marginally better than what came before. She was relieved. If they had decided to put more effort into shaping the public opinion, she knew her affection wouldn’t be completely faked, and it would hurt to know that whatever he returned would be.

Once, he asked about their child. Her heart melted at his tender gaze, the way his eyes moved to her belly. He looked almost happy at the prospect of being a father, and so she freely recounted her morning sickness, the small fluttering she sometimes experienced. It felt normal to tell him. It’s how it should be, really, to be able to share her pregnancy with the father of her child. The longer she spoke, the softer his eyes had gotten, and soon it didn’t feel like they were only friends anymore. It wasn’t long before they both realized the misstep they had taken. He pulled back. His eyes became distant and kind, a superficial, practiced affection, and she followed. He didn’t ask again.

The day they took the city, he couldn’t hide his crippling worry, and she didn’t ask him to, because she worried for him just the same. She couldn’t lose her only family, she couldn’t be left to raise they child alone, to never hear his council or feel the soft warmth of his presence again. They promised each other. He promised.

When they parted ways, she saw something flash in his eyes that looked _so_ familiar, and despite the pressing urge she felt to walk back and force him to address it, she didn’t. It didn’t matter, it _couldn’t_ matter. They were comfortable again, and it was too fragile to challenge.

It wasn’t a battle; it wasn’t even a sacking. Cersei kept her city underfed and weak, and the people flocked to a Queen who promised more. The soldiers had seen the power of her sons as they took out Euron’s ships, and they surrendered the moment the city walls fell.

That night, she fell asleep in her castle, finally able to call herself Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and by some miracle able to call herself a _mother_. The only blot on her fulfilled dreams was her carefully orchestrated marriage. Everything was real except for everything to do with Jon Snow.

She didn’t know why. She didn’t feel longing when she looked at him anymore, she didn’t find herself wishing for more whenever he was near, but she couldn’t quite fool herself into believing that things were as easy as they should have been. Whatever she once felt, she was good at suppressing, but she knew that’s what it was. Suppressing. She wondered how long she could keep it up.

\---------------

She wasn’t sure of the exact moment things began to sour again. Maybe it wasn’t a moment, but a series of them, each designed to chip away at the veneer they had carefully placed over themselves.

They were good for months; they shared genuine smiles and fell into a rare happiness when they realized that they could finally just _live_. There were no more enemies and no more wars to fight. Lords came, swore fealty to House Targaryen, were charmed by their lavish feasts and promises of prosperity, and left.

As promised, they sent aide to the North, ensuring that the people would survive winter, along with a formal proclamation of Sansa’s new position. The Wardeness responded with a letter addressed to her alone, thanking her for keeping her word, and inquiring if she could come to King’s Landing after the babe was born. It was her way of making amends, of accepting her and Jon’s decision, and Daenerys was more than happy to move past their terse interactions.

It was all going smoothly, their mutual respect was admired and commented on by all, but court was still court, and the tales about them twisted into stories that inched closer than the truth than was comfortable.

_You see the way he looks at her. The man’s obsessed and she won’t give him a second glance._

_I heard they haven’t shared a bed since they took the castle. If it weren’t for the babe, you would think they never even consummated the marriage._

_Look at how she stares at him, a girl in love, she is. It’s a shame it isn’t returned._

_He’ll be looking for a mistress soon. A man can’t go long without having a woman._

They both pretended not to hear the gossip, but it affected them anyway, and slowly bled into what they had until they could no longer ignore the stain. He stood just a little farther, and she was careful not to smile at him as much. Their nightly dinners dwindled to just a few times a week, before they stopped eating alone altogether. It was counterproductive, it only fed the flames, but they both knew that the only way to make them go away was to break their agreement. She wanted to, sometimes, just to shut them all up, but his hesitancy to want the same obstructed them from it. As much as she tried to understand, she couldn’t. Instead, she felt herself becoming annoyed by his rigidness. She blamed him for the rumors, she blamed him for her inability to settle into the happiness that was so very tangible now.

Deep down, she knew why. No matter how locked away their past was, no matter how well-practiced she was in masking her feelings, she still loved him. Not as her nephew, not as her family, but as _Jon_ , the man that came to her on the boat and stole her breath away. She missed him, even if he was here, tied to her forever. It wasn’t the same.

As her stomach grew, their child became the only thing that kept speaking at all. The only tether that not even he would ever dare to break. He sometimes asked to touch her rounded belly, to feel their babe under his hand. Whenever she felt movements against her palm, she always reached for his, no matter where they were, happy to at least have these moments between them be real and true.

The intimacy of it quelled some of the nastier rumors, as it was obvious both of them were looking forward to becoming parents, but not all of them. The fact that they never shared a bed was still common knowledge, causing more outlandish rumors to spread. It was said that perhaps Jon enjoyed to company of men. It was said that her rigid and cold way she sometimes carried herself followed her to the bedchambers, making her an unpleasant lover.

She waited in vain for him to speak up, to say something to the guests who would sometimes let their words carry when they’d indulged too much at feasts, but he never did. He only smiled uncomfortably at her as they disrespected their marriage. She could do it; she could shut them up with a single, fiery glance, but she had hoped he cared enough about her to do it himself. 

She started to resent him, this new Jon, this pretender. Even their friendship felt false, a façade they put up even when it was just the two of them. She hated it. She was ready for it to end.

“Walk me to my rooms?” She asked one night after a council meeting. Her feet ached, her back was sore, but she was ready to speak to him. “ _Please_ ,” she added, when it looked like he was about to protest.

He put a hand at her waist, letting her lean into him as they walked. His touch was so light she could hardly feel it, but it was the closest they’d been in months. They didn’t speak. It was almost like he knew an unpleasant conversation was coming.

When they finally made it to her rooms, she dismissed her handmaidens quietly, choosing to ignore their shock at Jon’s presence. He’d never seen her chambers before.

She pulled away from him, moving to sit in the large, comfortable chair by the fire. He followed, sitting across from her, as quiet as his wolf.

“How did you do it?” She asks quietly, staring into the flames.

A beat of silence followed before he answers her. “Do what?”

“How did you stop loving me so easily?” It hurt to say out loud. She was desperate to hear the answer.

“Dany…”

“Because I want to stop,” she says, cutting off whatever apology he was going to throw at her. She finally looked at him, his eyes dancing with fear and worry. “I want to stop loving you.”

His jaw flexed, he struggled to process he words, but he stayed quiet.

“Please, tell me,” she asks, surprised by the lack of emotion in her own voice. She just sounded tired. “Things can be better if you just tell me.”

He leaned forward, pressing his elbows into his thighs, cradling his head as he contemplated her request. She knew he would give her answer whenever he could form the words.

“I didn’t.”

His answer didn’t bring her the hope it would have only a few months before, it frustrated her. She stayed quiet, tears burning her eyes as she realized that he couldn’t help her like she wanted. It was supposed to be easy. It wasn’t supposed to hurt.

She shook her head, letting her resentment of him take over. “You don’t get to say things like that.”

“It’s true.” His voice was gruff and conflicted. He didn’t want her to know.

“I don’t care. What do you do then? Do you just _pretend_?”

“Yes.”

His short answers test her patience, chip at her resolve. “Wouldn’t it be easier if we just stop?”

It’s a tiny flicker of hope, enough to spark a fire if they let it, and enough for her to snuff out with ease if they didn’t.

“It would be.”

“But you don’t want to?” She pushed. _What are you thinking? Why won’t you talk to me?_

“We can’t.”

She nodded, disappointed in his answer, but not expecting anything less. She smothered it without a second thought.

“You should leave.”

“Dany—”

“Leave, Jon. There’s nothing more to say. We’ll go on pretending.”

\---------------

The rift between them wasn’t easy to hide. More often than not, their words were forced, and their weak smiles few and far in between. He stopped asking to feel their child, and she stopped reaching for his hand. Outside their formal engagements, she never saw him. He took to spending his time with the Queensguard, training alongside them, taking out his frustration with his sword.

He was growing restless, she could tell. She thought of sending him away. She could, after all, because she relinquished only a bit of her power to him when they married. She had the last word in all matters. Maybe it would be better for them, if he went away. She could send him North on a diplomatic assignment to see if Sansa was using their aide wisely. She knew she was, Sansa wrote her a few more times since her initial letter, each one a bit more friendly than the last. She knew he wouldn’t leave though, not when she was so close to birth. Just two and a half more moons at most. 

More than once, Tyrion expressed his exasperation at their behavior and more than once commented on his own lack of input in their marriage contract. _I could have him touring the country, spreading your vision, if you had given be five minutes with your draft._ He was right, of course, but she never told him so. Besides, the chasm that lay between them was filled with deep, personal conflicts and hurts, and she didn’t want her hand dragging them up to the light. She would try to repair the damage, or at least build a bridge, herself. 

She had a new resolve after her and Jon’s conversation, and she was determined to stick to it. She wouldn’t wait for him anymore. She realized that’s what she was doing, waiting. Unknowingly, she was waiting for him to change his mind, to be the first to act against the terms they had so carefully laid out because he was the only reason they had them at all. Waiting let her find happiness in their friendship until the wait became too long, and he failed her deep, well-hidden hopes.

She had a new hope, probably just as naïve as the first, that they could find a better happiness now that she’d given up on waiting. He wasn’t the same Jon, and she couldn’t spend the rest of her life being that same Daenerys.

Her new resolve, coupled with her new hope, gave her the motivation to summon him to a private dinner, their first in weeks, so they could end this awkward tension between them.

“This needs to stop, Jon. Our child deserved more than parents who hate each other.”

He narrowed his eyes at her accusation. “I don’t hate you.” 

“Well, I hate you,” she admitted. “Sometimes. This was supposed to be easy and you’ve made it anything but. We need to try harder. We need to be better.”

“We need to be better at _pretending,_ you mean?” At this point she wouldn’t be surprised if he hated the word too.

“Yes. If we try harder maybe one day it won’t be an act anymore. And we’ll be comfortable like we were in the beginning.” She missed that time, even if only blanketed the myriad of problems they would come to encounter. The war served as a distraction then, gave them something to talk about, and a purpose for their marriage. What was the point now?

He agreed. “Aye. I suppose I’ve done a poor job of it lately.”

“I have to,” she said. “But I miss you. I miss your company and your terrible stories.”

“They aren’t that bad.” He replied with a smile. She felt nothing dangerous when she saw it.

_This is good. We can be better._

“I suppose not,” she agreed, smiling back tentatively. ”But perhaps you could find some happier ones.”

\---------------

The loneliness was inevitable. It wasn’t _him_ she missed though, much to her relief. But she missed the intimacy. She missed having someone to share her bed with, someone to kiss her and make her feel wanted.

In the far back of her mind she began to look at the men in her court differently. Who could please her? Who would be worth the trouble? Who could keep up in conversation and make her feel beautiful? Who would keep their affair private and who would run to tell the masses as soon as she fell asleep? Maybe a lord that’s only come to swear fealty, one that could be gone in a fortnight. Maybe someone she saw frequently, so she didn’t have to look for more than one partner. Or maybe someone in her Queensguard, honor bound to keep her secrets. Still, how honorable could they be if they were willing to break their vows to bed her? She tried to ignore the fact that she spent more time considering the men with dark hair and dark eyes.

Her mind drifted to Essos. Daario satisfied her needs well enough, and she knew he would come if she asked. Though, he pined for her complete attention, which he would no longer have. She didn’t think he would respect Jon enough not to flaunt it, nor would he care to be constantly dismissed in favor of a babe at her breast. Perhaps not Daario, then. Maybe she should feel guilty for having these thoughts, but she didn’t, and she believed Jon had no right or reason to protest the idea.

She could ask him. They were getting better, no longer avoiding one another, though there was a sterility that came with their newer friendship. It was clean, it was safe, and it was underwhelming. It was better that it was, she supposed.

She wouldn’t bring it up anytime soon. Not until their union was stronger. In any case, she wouldn’t be taking anyone into her bed in the near future. The idea made her uncomfortable. She didn’t mind the idea of breaking her vows, they were as false as everything else in their marriage, but she couldn’t do it while she carried his child. It felt too close to betrayal.

He felt the loneliness too, she guessed, as he seemed to grow more comfortable with the lords and ladies they entertained. He kept up with conversation, shared his tales of the North with people other than her, and his accent did the charming for him. She saw the way he grew comfortable with the attentions of other women, way he no longer blushed when they spoke to him or dared to touch his arm.

It wasn’t jealousy she felt, she insisted to herself, but what else could the twitch of anger be? _Respect_ , she decided. They promised to always respect each other and here he was doing it out in the open. She didn’t care what he did on his own, they were both human, after all. The last thing they needed between them was pent up sexual tension. They both needed relief, she only wished he would seek it out privately.

At first it was just a slight hiccup, nothing she couldn’t recover from the next day. Though each time it happened the attentions grew bolder as ladies discovered he wasn’t discouraging it. She _was_ jealous, she eventually decided. But only because he could have anyone he wanted now, and she couldn’t. She was sat at the high table, heavy with his child, and he was exploring the many options laid out before him. 

She finally decided she had enough when she spotted him escorting a woman out of the great hall. The small supper was dwindling down, to her relief, but anyone could have seen him.

She turned to her Hand, her fists squeezed together as she tried to control her anger. “Can you tell him that he should handle his affairs with a bit more discretion? The last thing I need are more looks of pity.”

He looked almost amused at her anger, as if it was a game they were playing. “I’ll speak to him in the morning, Your Grace—”

“ _Now_.” She probably shouldn’t, but she wanted to ruin his evening because he ruined hers. She wanted guilt to ruin his pleasure. She wanted him to dismiss that woman from his rooms and never invite her again.

After he left to do her bidding, she relaxed, her rapidly beating heart settling from whatever brought on it’s fit. She decided to retire to her rooms after Tyrion left, wanting nothing more than to succumb to sleep.

Missandei walked with her, her lips skewed in a suppressed smile that fed into Daenerys’ irritation.

“Is something funny?” She asks flatly, turning to look at her friend.

Missandei smoothed out her amusement, though her eyes kept their kindness. “Your stubbornness does not always work to your advantage, Your Grace.”

She knew immediately what Missandei was alluding to. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Her friend shakes her head and they walk the rest of the way in silence, parting ways as they pass Missandei’s quarters.

As she readied for bed, she was startled by her doors bursting open, and her husband standing there, having the nerve to look anger _at her_.

“Are you going to have Tyrion give me commands now?”

“It wasn’t a command,” she replied calmly, going back to brushing her hair. “It was a request. You’re free to bed whoever you want, just as I am. I only ask that you be a bit more discreet. Even this sham of a marriage deserves a semblance of respect.” Her words grew sharper with every word.

She thought it was a fair request, though he only seemed to grow more offended. “I have no intention of disrespecting our marriage in any way. I expect you to do the same.”

It was her turn to be offended. She set down her brush and stood from her seat, turning to face him. She didn’t miss the way his eyes drifted from her face. She tightened the ties of her robe. “Do you expect me to believe that? I _saw_ you, Jon. Leading that woman from the great hall with her arm tucked into yours. Don’t take me for an idiot.”

“She was _drunk_. I had the guards outside the doors see her safely to her rooms. The last thing we need is for a woman to be taken advantage of in our keep, and I saw the way some of the men were watching her.”

It made sense, but she wasn’t done. She found herself wanting to fight with him, to infect the clean and boring _thing_ they had found themselves in, even if she risked killing it. “I doubt she was the first one,” she snapped, effectively dismissing his story. “Do whatever you want, our marriage will survive it, I assure you. But please have the decency to respect _me_ , I deserve at least that.”

“And you’ll do the same?” He asked in a mocking tone. “Maybe you already have, and I’ve just been too oblivious to see it.”

She hated what he was implying, even though it was very near the truth. She hadn’t done it yet, but she’d done plenty of thinking about it. “What I do isn’t any of your business.” She said, aware of the blatant hypocrisy. “I would never have a man escort from a hall _filled with our people,_ where anyone could see. Where my husband could see.”

“You respect me enough to keep me ignorant of it, then?” He asked lowly, stalking closer to her. Her heart began to pound in her chest. _In anger_ , she told herself.

She stood her ground, even when she knew she should back up. She was excited for him to feel something _real_ , to be true in what he felt, even if he just wanted to yell and say he hated her. She was excited for the same, to stop pretending for once. “Yes. So long as you turn the other way, so will I. But it’s difficult to ignore when you do it right in front of me.”

He took another step closer, so close she could feel the heat of his body. “As I said, I have no intention of disrespecting you or our marriage. I had hoped you cared enough about me to do the same.”

She hated him for saying that, for saying that _she_ was the one who didn’t care. She tried for so long, she cared longer than she should have. “Are you jealous?” She whispered, her anger bubbling just beneath the surface.

“Yes.”

She reached up, intent on pushing him away, to force him to respect the boundaries they’d set. _He has no right to be jealous_. Instead she grabbed his collar and pulled him roughly to her, meeting his lips in a harsh, bruising kiss.

He reacted immediately, pulling her closer, grabbing at her with urgency.

Blindly, and without thought, they tore at each other’s clothes, backing up until her knees hit the side of her bed.

“We need to stop,” she whispered, kissing down his jaw, nipping at his neck.

He lifted her onto the bed, climbing over her. “I know.”

They almost did. Her growing belly, obstructing them from getting as close as they used to get, brought them out of the haze, but she didn’t want to stop. She was so wound up, and so close to relieving the tension.

She pushed his shoulders, and he knew her intentions immediately. He moved to his back, and, pulled her with him. Straddling his waist, they both worked to remove her robe. Faintly, she heard the tear of fabric as his impatience got to him and became worried when he stilled beneath her.

She refocused, looking down at him, only to find him looking at her stomach in wonder. _Right. He hasn’t been around; he hasn’t seen the changes._

“Dany…” He whispered, _too_ sweetly, _too_ much in adoration.

She shook her head, her eyes begging him to stop talking. He understood, his eyes masking whatever was close to spilling out.

She pushed everything from her mind expect for the feel of his body, trying her hardest not to think of the past. She focused all her attention on the physical sensations she felt, just his body and what it was doing to hers. She closed her eyes, thinking if she didn’t look at him, she could pretend it was a stranger that she didn’t feel anything for. Just a stranger she needed to make her feel good. It was impossible, she knew the feel of his hands too well, she remembered just how perfect he felt inside her. It was him; she couldn’t think anything else.

_Just this once._ She told herself.

When she woke the next morning, she was relieved to find him gone.

\---------------

By some miracle, falling into bed together didn’t set them back at all. Instead, it broke all the bitterness between them, reminded them that they _did_ care. He wasn’t a disrespectful husband and she wasn’t a resentful wife. It relieved the building animosity they had for one other, bringing it to a peak in the gentlest, sweetest way.

For her, it was also closure. What they had ended so abruptly, it was still raw and open, and everything they had done since they married only achieved the sting of salt. That night served the purpose of healing the wound it left behind. It was a farewell to what they once were. It was the final spark of passion, dying out. It wouldn’t happen again.

He started inviting her to dine with him, shy and nervous, but determined to try. She accepted easily every time. So close to the end of her pregnancy, she didn’t want to resent him for anything more than her swollen feet and aching back.

They didn’t speak of it. Though, by the way his cheeks sometimes went pink, and the wave of desire she sometimes felt when let her eyes linger, they both thought of it frequently. She just needed a man, she told herself, and he needed a woman. Anyone would have done.

“I didn’t do it.” She said abruptly, munching on an apple slice as they sat together in her solar. It had been bothering her since that night, that he believed she took another man into her bed.

“Do what?” He asked innocently, his brows furrowing in confusion.

“I didn’t…no man wants to bed another man’s pregnant wife. Even if she is the Queen.”

She saw it, _relief_ , so quick she could have blinked and missed it. He clears his throat. “It doesn’t matter. You were right, it’s not my place to be angry. Or jealous. I know what I’ve asked of you isn’t…fair. You should have been able to marry someone you loved.”

 _I did._ She wanted to say. She didn’t think he would recoil at it. But it wouldn’t help. They were here now, married, and they should make the best of it. “Still, I had planned on waiting until after,” she sighed. “Jon, what we have isn’t a _real_ marriage. You don’t need to honor anything. You left your home for me. You’re the King, even when it’s the last thing you wanted, just to keep me safe. Find whatever pleasure you can, with whoever you want. I could never hate you for it.” The words are harder to get out than she expected. _Mine._ her heart argued. _No one else’s._

He looked away from her, and she did him, giving him the privacy to digest her words. “And you’ll do the same?” He asked, a hint of defeat in his question.

“I’ll do the same.”

He nodded, thought it didn’t please her. It sounded like a vow, a promise to be unfaithful to whatever it was they had. Why did she suddenly hate the idea?

She didn’t linger on it. In the final weeks of her pregnancy, she didn’t want to worry about things that weren’t important. It was yet another unspoken understanding between them that whatever parties would come in to disrupt their marriage wouldn’t make an appearance for months. They didn’t have room to worry about it now.

\---------------

She gave birth to their child just a few nights later. Jon was the first person she asked for, and long after everyone else was dismissed, he made no move to leave her side. He looked at her like she’d given him the world, and just for the moment she allowed herself to think she did.

With every passing contraction, his close presence had become more important and more crucial than she’d ever thought possible. The soft kisses he pressed to her sweat-covered brow soothed her cries of pain. The words of encouragement he whispered in her ear were laced in love and she prayed she would hear them long after the pain stopped. Despite the agony, he made it peaceful and perfect.

This peace was only temporary, though. In a few days he would step back again and the emotions she felt as she gripped his hands tightly in hers whenever she pushed would all culminate into the little life he helped her make.

Their son was perfect. His dark hair was already unruly, waving gently across his head, the tiny wisps that fell forward making her heart hurt with love. He was asleep now, but she had already memorized the exact color of his eyes. They were a deep blue, with a hint of gold around his irises, just enough to let her know he would take after her. She teared up, not quite able to believe that she could create someone so beautiful.

Jon sat beside her bed, quiet, though attentive to every change in her breath. His red-rimmed eyes watched their son closely, he probably felt the same disbelief she did, but she felt them on her sometimes. She was too frightened to look up and see what she would find staring back at her.

“What are we going to name him?” He asked, the love still evident in his gentle words. She found herself dreading the moment it would fade again.

\---------------

Watching him with Aemon was her favorite thing to do. He seemed so impossibly small in his father’s arms, but Jon never looked more at ease. When Aemon was asleep, the softest smile would pull at his lips, and Daenerys always saw the tears he would wipe away. When he was awake, Jon would whisper to him, and she tried her best to stay away, to let him have his private moments with his son. But she heard sometimes. _You’re perfect, aren’t you? Only your mama could make someone so perfect._ They were just words, she told herself, but she craved them, even if they weren’t hers to hear.

He rarely left her rooms, he would fall asleep in an uncomfortable chair, and she could see that his neck bothered him the next morning though he never complained. She told him he could lay in her bed and he always refused, but his eyes gave away his desire to do so. Still, even as tired and sore as he was, he woke with her ever time Aemon cried, and he brought him to her, so she didn’t have to leave her bed.

She was exhausted, but she never entertained the idea of a wet nurse. Aemon would be her only babe, and she wanted to experience every part of being a mother, no matter how painful or tiring it all was. She couldn’t miss a moment of it.

After nearly two weeks of blissful solitude, they agreed that they’d neglected their duties for too long, but she couldn’t find it in herself to leave her son with women who would do her job as a mother. Her quiet, solemn, perfect boy only ever cried when he was hungry, and she didn’t see a reason for him to leave her arms when he didn’t disrupt council meetings or petitioners.

Ser Davos and Missandei adored their son, and while Tyrion would feign irritation whenever their meetings would stray at the slightest noise her son made, all of them turning to watch Aemon’s every movement with endearment, she could see that he was happy for her.

When she didn’t have him, he was cradled in Jon’s arms, sleeping peacefully. Jon, being just as enamored with their son as she was, was oblivious to the looks of hopeless infatuation thrown his way by onlooking ladies. She never missed them, and she didn’t bother calling the emotion it stirred anything other than irritation. 

\---------------

It was easy to fall in love with him the second time. Did she ever really stop? Watching him dote on their son, melting at the sight of them together, she knew she wanted it again, and only with him. She wanted a lifetime of this with him.

It was hard not to think he felt the same. The love in his words hadn’t faded in the slightest, even when he said the plainest, simplest things to her, she could hear it with perfect clarity. Perhaps it wasn’t just his son that made him so happy. 

They fell into a routine that was almost perfect. He elected to make himself comfortable in the solar of her chambers, to be closer to their son. Alone or in public, their interactions felt as pure as fresh snow and as easy as breathing. She was happier than she had been in nearly a year. She knew what was missing.

Aemon was only a month old when they eased back into the more lavish parts of court life with some trepidation, and she found herself always standing closer to him, always leaning into his arm as he held their son. _I just miss Aemon the moment he’s out of my arms. I need to be near him,_ she told Missandei after her endless teasing. Even she rolled her eyes at her own terrible excuse. She did it for numerous reasons. To watch her son, to be closer to her husband, to make it impossible for any woman to try and move closer.

It became a different sort of act, just for him, trying to pretend she didn’t love him as hopelessly as she did. Judging by everyone else’s looks, she was failing miserably. Grey Worm looked confused at it, Missandei only shook her head with a smile, and Tyrion looked at her with such blatant expectancy she had to throw him a look of warning more than once before Jon saw. She wouldn’t be surprised if he and Ser Davos were taking bets on her turmoil.

It made her laugh to think of how she used to dread her husband’s company. Maybe she never did, maybe she just twisted her own love too much, warped it something ugly so it couldn’t hurt her. Either way, she didn’t want to pretend anymore. But she didn’t know how to tell him.

\---------------

Her role as a mother became so natural to her that it wasn’t a duty at all, and she was able to carry out all of her duties as Queen without wearing herself thin. When her little love was two months old, she finally began to feel like her body was her own again. She was almost wholly content in her life, but she felt that familiar loneliness creep up on her. This time, it _was_ him. She didn’t spare a glance at anyone else, she only wanted him.

One night, she reluctantly pulled herself away from the high table to make her way around the room. They still had to charm their people, after all. They traded off, and while he always volunteered to go for her, _just this once,_ she always said no. She spoke with Sansa Stark, who gushed endlessly over her nephew, her cold demeanor gone after their honest conversation upon her arrival. She spoke with Gendry Baratheon, finding the man’s determination to excel in his new duties endearing. They were easy to talk to, but not the others. She had to listen to women admire her husband as if she wasn’t there. She accepted their backhanded compliments with a smile, telling herself that Jon wouldn’t pick any of them to share his bed. He would pick someone eventually though…if she never worked up the nerve to tell him. In response she might have lingered longer than necessary as she spoke to their husbands, feeling a petty joy when she felt their narrowed eyes at her back.

She felt other eyes on her as well. She looked around to see that her Hand was laughing into his cup, Sansa was watching her in curious amusement, and her husband looked far more serious than she liked.

She finished her rounds quickly, already missing her little family. When she returned to the table, she saw that Aemon was sleeping heavily in Jon’s arms, and most likely wouldn’t wake again until morning.

“Should we retire?” She asked him quietly.

“I’ll take him, you can stay if you wish.” He replied, so despondent she was immediately worried.

“I want to retire,” she said, standing up. “Come with me.”

He stood, and they said their goodbyes to the people that mattered, careful not to wake their son. At this point, the people that frequented their weekly feasts were used to it, and even quieted their conversation whenever they saw that the prince was asleep.

Walking down the corridors to her rooms, he threw her a weak smile, a false one that made her blood run cold. _No. No more pretending._ She knew immediately what had caused it, she was too serious in her little game of getting back at those women, and they were too fragile to not let it affect _them_. 

As he laid Aemon down in the bassinet by her bed, she leaned into him, circling her arms around his waist. He threw his arm across her shoulders and pulled her close. They were both quiet, staring down at the tiny person they would burn the world for. “He really is perfect.” She whispered.

He nodded in agreement, his arm tightening just the slightest. “Did you ever learn out how to stop?” He asked, his voice thick with fear.

She pulls her eyes from their son, looking up at him. She knows exactly what he’s asking. “No.”

He released a shuddering breath. “Do you still want to?”

“You know I don’t.” She answered firmly. It was impossible for him not to see. “And you? Are you going to stop pretending?” Was he still? All his actions pointed to love, but he had yet to say it.

“I already have,” he answered. “But I think you know that.”

She smiled, surprisingly relieved to hear that nothing between them in the weeks since Aemon was born had been part of that pointless and painful charade. “I do.”

He turned to face her, taking her hands in his, squeezing them tightly. He looked at her with hope and love in his eyes, and her own blurred with tears of happiness at the sight of it. He loosened his grip just a little, moving one hand up to twist into her hair and pulled her lips to his. They were married, and it would be simple, and easy, and _real_ , just as it always should have been.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, it's me. I couldn't resist. 
> 
> I went back and cleaned up the first part a lil bit, added some stuff, reworded some stuff. Maybe go back and read but nothing really changes, so you don't have to if you don't want to.
> 
> I'll maybe, probably (definitely) clean this up eventually but I think it's acceptable for other peoples' eyes. Get ready for 10k of brooding, pining, and unnecessary angst.
> 
> (Also, heads up, this is nothing new just previous chapter from Jon’s POV)

Watching her walk towards him felt like the sweetest dream and the cruelest nightmare. She would be his in a way he had never dared to hope, and forever out of his reach.

His mind raced to place blame on everything and everyone it could. His anger flares at his brother, nearly hating him for telling him a truth that could have been forever left unsaid. It should have stayed dead with his fath—his uncle. Eddard Stark. He took Jon and kept him away from half of his lineage, and irrationally he thinks that if he had only grown up as a true Targaryen…he stops. It was no use, he grew up in the North, as a Stark, and Starks couldn’t love their aunts the way he longed to love her. He feels a brush of disdain for his own people, their incessant need to protest and object anything that strays from what they believe.

It was all useless. He didn’t blame Bran. He felt peace at finally knowing the identity of his mother, though the new knowledge of his father was something else entirely. The trouble his parents love had cause was something he didn’t want to think about. He knew Ned Stark had only done what he thought was best. _The next time we see each other, we’ll talk about your mother._ He would have told him eventually, Jon believed, and that thought tempered his anger. His people didn’t know. To them, he was only their Warden, Jon Snow, son of Eddard Stark, winning himself a crown by marrying the Dragon Queen. They didn’t know how he loved her, how it pained him to try and forget that he did. How guilty he felt because of it.

He couldn’t blame anyone but himself for his misery.

She was a vision, the most beautiful woman he would ever have the privilege of seeing, and he was already taking it for granted.

She was a master at masking her emotions, and to his disappointment he found that not even _he_ could read anything she was thinking on her delicate features. _Perhaps I was never good at it, she only let me see, she only showed me because she loved me._ It stabs at his heart to see her revert back so easily, so willingly, but he asked her to. He had no right to feel the pain in his chest. He tore his eyes from her as she reached his side, overcome with emotions that now felt forbidden.

Her hands rest in his, limp and cold, and he longs to clasp them tightly in his own, to offer her warmth. As they say the words, he feels his resolve crack at her empty, polite tone. He hates it, almost as much as he hates himself for being the cause of it.

 _It isn’t too late,_ he reminded himself desperately. _Things can go back to the way they were._

But they can’t. It was impossible to forget that he wasn’t Jon Snow. _Aegon Targaryen._ A name fit for a king, a king _she_ deserved, yet it was the name and its implications that pushed him to put an end to what they had. His own reasoning confused him, but he found enough logic in it to believe it to be right, and he didn’t fight it. He was of the North, through and through, and Targaryen was only a name whispered as the dying breathe of his mother. Perhaps that’s why he couldn’t shake it, it was the name she gave him, and as unnatural a fit as it was, he couldn’t disrespect the truth she laid on him.

The festivities that followed were nearly as painful as the ceremony. He wanted more than anything to be happy alongside their people, to celebrate his marriage to a woman who was far more than he deserved, but he followed her lead and tried not to feel anything.

He was more than willing to let her decide the course of things, ignoring the impossible hope he had that she would lead them back to happiness somehow. It would only hurt them both more when he turned away from it again. She didn’t deserve that.

Davos expressed his frustrations as they readied their men to march south, wondering aloud why he was always eager to subject himself to unnecessary suffering. Davos didn’t understand though, it wasn’t unnecessary, it was how things had to be. The choices of everyone who came before them saw to it, and he hated how he felt obligated to make his decisions based on the actions of dead men, how he wasn’t strong enough to fight it. If he were a true Targaryen, he would be. He felt stuck, his love for her making him too different to be a Stark, and not enough to be Targaryen. He wasn’t either and yet both had a hold over him that he couldn’t understand. Jon didn’t have the words to explain it to Davos.

\---------------

Leaving Winterfell was bittersweet and he felt even more alone in his thoughts and isolated from everyone he cared for. He was leaving the ancestral home of the only name he’d known, even if it would never be his own, and moving towards a new one altogether, a grand one that he felt even more unworthy of. Ancestors he never acknowledged built the Red Keep, and he was taking their place feeling like an imposter and a failure for being unable to stand proudly at his wife’s side.

 _Gods,_ he thinks. _His wife._

He felt nothing but frustration at his new reality. He had already let her down, and he would never rise up to the position she deserved, but he was determined to climb the rungs of his self-loathing and confusion just enough to not make a mockery of her reign.

She helped him, she made it easier. She conquered whatever passion there was between them and treated him as nothing more than an ally. As someone she married as a formality. It was for the best, they decided together, but her quick turn had stung, no matter his role in the decision.

It was hard, but it was also easy. There were moments where he could almost forget and just appreciate her company. She was kind and soft, she was firm and powerful. She was a wonder to behold and he knew he was lucky to witness it, to bask in it the way she allowed.

She could have pulled away completely, ignored him and the hurt he caused as soon as the words were said, but she didn’t want them both miserable. She cared enough about him to remind him that he was still important to her. He knew their relation did not cause her conflict the way it did him. He could find happiness in their arrangement if he tried the way she did.

And then she told him, and he cursed himself even more.

Another unattainable dream was dropped onto his lap, and he didn’t have the courage or the mind to appreciate it. He was elated, but it felt like borrowed happiness, the happiness of a person he no longer was. The weaker part of him longed to be that person again and ignore the truths thrust upon him.

Instead of wallowing in self-pity, he tried to pretend like everything between them was simple and common, and worried for her safety going into battle, as a husband should. She didn’t react the way he expected, but he couldn’t blame her. _You don’t get to tell me what to do._ She was right, he wasn’t really her husband and it was because he chose not to be. He supposed he was grateful for her reminder of it. She showed little signs of the same misery he felt, and that was the only thing that lessened his regret.

They went on as if nothing was different, they spoke at council meetings, exchanged stifled pleasantries as they waited for someone else to come and ease the conversation, but he didn’t know how to act. He ached to fall on his knees and ask her what to do, how to be. He knew her well though, nothing could make him forget that. She would only tell him it wasn’t a choice she could make for him and pretend he hadn’t said anything at all.

Her lack of scrutiny told him two contradicting things; she loved him enough not to push him, or that love was lost, and she wasn’t concerned with the crisis going on in his head at all.

In his heart, he knew it was the former, but he made himself belief otherwise. It wasn’t her problem to deal with, nor one she would understand. She knew who she was, and she carried her name proudly. He was envious of it.

Some nights he stayed up, staring up at the dark canvas of his tent, and wondered if he was overthinking. No one but his wife and the people closest to them would ever know, and yet he felt exposed anyway. The name Jon Snow was a lie, but it was one he wanted to live, and he was guilt-ridden because of it. Some nights, Ned Stark was his father, and he knew his decision to keep her at a distance was wise, honorable, something that would make his father proud. Other nights, Lyanna Stark was his mother, his true father only a blurred image he turned away from, and he could almost feel her last words brush across his ears. _Aegon Targaryen. You have to protect him._ She wanted him to be Aegon, would she be disappointed in him now? Would she understand why? Would she tell him to let himself be happy with Daenerys? He didn’t know enough about her to even wonder. He knew even less about Rhaegar Targaryen. On rare occasions, he forced himself to acknowledge that truth. Would Rhaegar care if his son loved his sister? Would he expect it? Would he disapprove? The questions didn’t help much, Jon didn’t care for the answers, really. The fact that he _should_ care kept him asking anyway.

He locked away all his questions and truths and turmoil away when her saw her. She had enough to worry about, and a brooding husband was bound to get irritating.

As they neared King’s Landing, he’d like to think he perfected his ritual and she seemed none the wiser.

Her shoulders lost their rigidity when he was near, and her smile nearly touched her eyes whenever he managed to lift her mood.

He discovered it was dangerous to want more of it though.

“How are you feeling?” He allowed himself to ask, thinking it was safe. While he felt undeserving, he loved their child already and he didn’t want to miss what he _could_ share in. He also didn’t want her to think that it meant nothing to him, just as she couldn’t know how it meant _everything_.

She told him, and he felt all his troubles slipping away. The light that danced in her eyes was impossible to resist. Even as she spoke of an uneasy stomach and exhaustion, he could see the love in her eyes. She let him in again, and he felt nameless and free for a moment, leaning in to absorb her every word, but then he saw a flicker of confusion and vulnerability, and he realized he overstepped. It wasn’t his place anymore.

The slightest push on his part re-opened the floodgates and had him drowning in his own regret and exposed her to feelings she may not reciprocate anymore. He made a note of where their new boundaries were, and silently promised her to respect them.

He nearly overstepped again the day they put their plans to action, realizing that that there was a possibility that he could lose them both. The very thought took over his mind and urged him to not let her climb on her dragon without her knowing the anchored truth buried beneath the hurt and confusion of who he was: that he loved her with everything that he was, that he could never forget it no matter how much easier it would be to let her go.

He held his tongue until he could taste the tang of blood and watched her leave without a second glance. It wasn’t hard for her to do, why couldn’t he?

His heart pounded in his ears the entire time she was in the air, even as her victory became clear on the horizon.

The feeling was too strong, he finally realized, too great to simply push from his mind. He loved her, their shared blood didn’t do anything to change that, and as she won her city, he felt the weight of opposition lift from his shoulders as he gave up trying to fight it.

\---------------

Naturally, accepting that he would always love her only made him feel worse. He wanted her, he wanted things to be the way they were before they reached his home. It was the happiest he had ever been, and yet, instead of acting as a reason to avoid her and giving logic to his suffering, his parentage now only felt like a wall he didn’t have the slightest clue or the means to cross.

It meant something, it _had_ to mean something. It could be a warning, the gods telling him to avoid her and let her be free from him, and it could be permission, a push to love her and call her his because that’s what Targaryens did. Why was he afraid of the warning? Why did he need permission?

She would laugh in the face of the gods and proudly display her love. She would ignore the way people sneered at the practice of her family and remind him that neither of them knew when they fell in love, that the name Targaryen had as little influence on her feelings as the name Snow did.

She wouldn’t do that now, though. Not anymore.

As they settled into the city and into their new roles, she seemed happy. He was too, seeing her on the throne, watching her be a Queen to their people. This was her destiny, and he was proud of the role he played to get her there. But he felt out of place, a spectator to a life that wasn’t his. He didn’t have the duties of his title typically demanded, an agreement they had come to, and he also didn’t have the duties of a husband. It didn’t seem like she was missing anything in his absence, and so he tried to find his place at a comfortable distance from her. He didn't know what he could give her, what strengths he had now that the fighting was over. He hoped eventually he would find a place close enough to her to be happy. She didn’t seek out his council as she did before, though she always listened with a practiced smile whenever he _did_ speak up.

There was talk about them, petty gossip that he had to rise above and meet with the dignity his position required, but it was always rooted in truths that made him uncomfortable, not because of their relation, but because it twisted the reality into something ugly. She didn’t pine after him like they suggested, and he’d done his best to avoid staring at her for too long. Their child wasn’t created out of a marital duty, but it’s not as if he could explain it to their people. And he would never seek out a mistress. The thought had never crossed his mind.

She heard the rumors too and they made her uncomfortable. He felt terrible for it because it was his fault. He asked her to do this, to join their claims only in name and nothing more. He stepped back again, fighting against his own resistance. This time, he didn’t bother trying to find a reason for why it had to be this way. He knew there was none strong enough to justify it.

Her pregnancy made him ache. He desperately wanted to be closer to her, if only for that. He never thought he would father children, let alone children who would be princes and princesses. Well, he wouldn’t father more than one, he figured. Daenerys had made it clear that this child would be their heir, no matter the sex, and he gathered that it meant no children would come after. This would be his only child and he didn’t get to experience the wonder of watching her belly grow or cradle it as they fell asleep together. Regret was his only companion most days.

He must not have been very well at hiding the longing in his eyes, because despite how far apart they felt, she pulled him close just for this. The movements of their child beneath his hand made him question everything. Loving her was unavoidable, so why couldn’t he just allow himself to do it?

Their advisors were growing frustrated with them, complaining about the way they fed the fire of the rumors. Jon had gotten used to Davos’ tirades about his misery.

“This is getting ridiculous, lad,” he would say. “You’re spending too much time in that head of yours.”

He would shake his head in apologizing, feeling like a burden for the way he was coping with everything. “I don’t mean to.”

“I beg your pardon, Your Grace, but I don’t see why you're spending so much time wondering if you love her. It’s plain as day.”

“I know I love her…it’s everything else.” Every time, it was easier to say. He didn’t feel wrong for his love and yet he was still stuck. “She doesn’t…I ended it between us, and she’s never tried to make me feel guilty over it. She’s happy. I won’t go and mess everything up again when the matter’s been settled.”

“You’re mad if you think it’s settled,” he would reply. “You’ve got the rest of your life with her; it can’t hurt to ask if she could ever love you the same way again.”

It _could_ hurt. She could say no and he would have to pretend he wasn’t living with regret for the rest of his days. He couldn’t ask, because her feelings were also plain as day. She cared of him, of that he never doubted, but she cared for him as family. _Family_. It always came back to that. And then he was reminded of all the reasons he shouldn’t act on his feelings. It was silly, no one else in the Kingdoms knew of their shared blood, and she didn’t push him on revealing it, but he was uneasy about the invisible and imagined stares they would receive. What would his family say? Sansa and Daenerys were starting to get on through correspondence, but Sansa only believed their marriage to be political. She knew Jon turned away from Daenerys as soon as he learned, and she didn’t discourage it. Arya would want him to be happy, he thinks, no matter who it was with.

He’s frustrated again and he finds the root of his trouble, tangled and hidden and secretive, buried with dead men and long-established beliefs. Ned was his father. Rhaegar was his father. The only things he knew with certainty, yet they offered no help. He thought he knew the man that raised him, but his motives and hopes for Jon died with him. He couldn’t have hoped for much, he didn’t fight Jon’s plans to join the Night’s Watch, but he must have wanted more for his sister’s son. He probably didn’t think Jon would ever cross paths with Daenerys, let alone fall in love with her, yet that’s exactly what happened, and Ned was not alive to offer Jon any direction. He’s not sure if he would want it, if he’s honest. His anger for Ned Stark flared every so often with, wondering why he didn’t just _say_ something, why he didn’t prepare Jon should others ever uncover the truth on their own. Jon should have known long before he left for the wall. He may not have been a man, but he wasn’t a boy. Perhaps then, he would have come to terms with it and met Daenerys already at peace with the knowledge. And Rhaegar…Jon didn’t have the slightest clue what to think of the man. Only his actions in the short time before his death could offer him any insight. Jon felt a guilty happiness at his parents’ marriage. Rhaegar’s actions spoke volumes about his love for Lyanna, but it also revealed the man’s selfishness. He felt shame in Rhaegar’s actions. He already had a wife and children, and he left them at the mercy of his father. His child had yet to be born, and Jon couldn’t fathom the thought leaving them. He was grateful that they loved one another, relieved that his mother wasn’t taken against her will and forced to carry the child of her rapist, but Jon couldn’t justify their actions. The Mad King Aerys was the cause of the war, but their love was a catalyst for it, as well as the cause of thousands of deaths.

The world would be a different place if they’d never run off together. Perhaps Rhaegar would have deposed his father and likely have been King today. His mother could be alive and thriving somewhere…or not. But Jon’s birth would not have been the thing that killed her. And Daenerys…she would not have suffered what she did. She would have grown up a princess and given everything he heart desired. Jon was riddled with guilt. Of course, he was not to blame for his parent’s actions, but he burdened himself with the consequences anyway. 

And his mother…while he disapproved of their recklessness, he felt only warmth towards his mother. He had wanted to know his whole life and now he did. It was nearly laughable how she exceeded any hopes he may have conjured up about her. He remembered hoping that his father at least cared for his mother, and she him. He prayed to the gods that she loved him, that she didn’t think him a stain on her image or a mistake. He even dared to hope that she wasn’t just some tavern wench or whore. Everything he wished for was the truth, and yet it still managed to unsettle Jon’s entire life. But still, she loved him, she begged her brother to keep him safe. She named him Aegon.

Somewhere in all his feelings, there was a reason for his resistance, his hesitancy. He didn’t want to find it to make sense of it or use it as shield. He wanted to find it to tear it down, to make peace with the men who were responsible for his existence and come to her with a settled mind and a pure heart. She deserved more than a love tainted by the ugliness of their ancestors and at the moment, that’s all he had.

\---------------

He was in his head too often, it seemed. She asked him to her chambers, the fire in her eyes such a change from the unreadable blankness she now reserved for him. He followed, afraid of what she would say, but excited she was going to say anything at all.

And then she pushed him further away. It was his fault. She reached out for him ever so slightly, _wouldn’t it be easier if we just stopped?_ It would be, and he would be happier for it. And he would take away the tiredness he saw in her eyes whenever she remembered that he was her husband. But he couldn’t. He didn’t want to burden her with his irrational thinking. He knows she would listen, and she would try to offer him words of comfort with the best intentions, but she didn’t understand. He couldn’t untangle the mess with the influence of others.

So, he turned away her reaching hand, the longing to take it fighting him every second. If she pushed further, he might have given in. She didn’t though, she didn’t show any struggle in it either and he left her rooms terrified that he might have just killed their last chance together. She _would_ stop loving him eventually and then it would be too late for him. _If she’s happy, then I’ll be happy._

After their love was sufficiently dead in her eyes, and lost in his, there was little connecting them anymore. Their babe was the thread he held on to, and the only bright spot he could see moving forward.

Unintentionally, he fell into further into his misery, avoiding her and finding things to keep him so busy he would be too exhausted to notice the loneliness that filled his chambers whenever he retired.

She was growing every day and he could see the softness and excitement in her eyes whenever she laid her hands over their child. It’s the only reason he didn’t completely hate himself for the things she lost because of him. And old friend and a dragon for a man who only caused her trouble wasn’t a fair trade in his eyes, but their babe must have been worth all the pain to her. It was for him. He’d suffer death ten times over if it meant she got to hold her own child in her arms.

But wasn’t enough to hold them together. She was tense around him, and her eyes shifted whenever he was near. It confused him. She said she wanted to stop, she was ready to move on from what they shared but his words did not free her in the way he thought they would.

Losing her friendship as well as her love wasn’t something he’d prepared for. He could find contentment in a union of warm friendship and respect, but the bleak one in front of him now wasn’t just affecting him anymore.

She spoke to him again, expressed her frustrations, and he so desperately wanted to tell her that he only needed time, that he wished to be her confidante, her friend, her family, and her husband if she let him. The words were right on his tongue, and then she told him how she felt. _Well, I hate you…sometimes. This was supposed to be easy and you’ve made it anything but._

It was supposed to be easy. He couldn’t burden her with such a declaration. She wanted things to be how they were in the beginning, whether she meant the beginning of their marriage or the first time they met, he didn’t know, but he knew romantic love was not the foundation she sought.

They needed to be better at _pretending._ Another lie he had to find his place in.

But he missed her too, and so he smiled as best he could, and pretended that nothing was wrong.

\---------------

He threw all his efforts into being what she wished, what she needed. He pushed his jumbled thoughts to the side whenever he left his chambers, doing whatever he could to ease the tension between them. He stood by her side instead of escaping her. He exhausted himself reading proposals and plans for the city rather than swinging his sword.

He forced himself to relax into his title, finding it easier than he expected. He’d had the duties of a King before, but he found no pleasure in it for a number of reasons. He had always fostered guilt being named King in the North, it was a title for a Stark, and the Northerners should have given their support to Sansa after Robb. He was a Snow, a name they sneered at before they realized their only other option was a girl. But he wasn’t a Snow anymore, he’d known that for a while now, and it wasn’t so jarring anymore. Tentatively, he recognized that he could be a King for her. In another life, he might have been, and she may very well have been his wife. Rhaegar Targaryen turned away from his country, his duties, for _love_ , and Jon believed with all his heart that in this other life, he would have loved Daenerys just as he did now. Rhaegar wouldn’t keep them from one another, he wouldn’t disapprove. And his father, Ned, he was one of the most honorable men in Westeros and he expected the same honor in his children. _What is honor compared to a woman’s love?_ Maester Aemon was his ancestor too, he remembered with a shock, and his words were the only thing that offered him a clear direction. There was nothing dishonorable about love, not if it promised peace and prosperity and happiness instead of war and tragedy.

Again, he wondered why he cared at all. They were gone and their opinions with them, and he was not beholden to what they may have believed. Ned had shaped him into a man, given him the foundation to face all he did from the moment he left for the wall, but Jon had grown on his own since then. He tried to be cautious where is father was too trusting, he tried to be calculating where his father was foolish. He wanted to help her shape a new world where his father sought to conform to the old one. _It was the King’s blood in him,_ he figured. The thought did not repulse him. He didn’t truly know what Rhaegar would say, so he stopped wondering. It didn’t matter anyway, all he to do was accept that Rhaegar fathered him, that he was a trueborn prince and not a bastard.

And he thinks he did accept it, but he was underwhelmed by how little it changed him. To the world, he was still Jon Snow, the bastard who reached too high and made himself King. He was earning their respect but that’s what he would always have to do, _earn_ it instead of command it like his wife did. It was the norm for him. And while he wasn’t Ned Stark’s son, he recited his words to him now more than ever. _You may not have my name, but you have my blood._ He loved him like a son, and for Jon that was enough. He knew his father had no malicious intent in his actions, and so his initial anger ebbed away. He still didn’t like how his father kept him ignorant, but he could do nothing to change it now and it would do no good to linger on it.

As the weeks dragged, he felt himself become unburdened by what he now knew of himself. He didn’t feel obligated to change himself to fit the name his mother gave him, nor did he feel guilty for letting it stay hidden. He knew his true name, his family did, she did, and that was enough for him.

While he remained unchanged, she _had_ changed, _they_ changed. What they had now was nice, he supposed, but it was shallow and cold compared to the depth their love once went. He didn’t say anything to her. She was in her final weeks of pregnancy and he wasn’t willing to cause her any undue stress for the sake of his own heart.

He forced himself to mingle with their people, forming a repartee with some who seemed genuinely interested in knowing who their King was. The talk about he and Dany lost its nastiness, but only because people grew tired of spreading the same rumors. The same things were said, just to a lesser degree. They weren’t really considered rumors anymore, only facts concerning the nature of the monarchs’ marriage.

To his annoyance, those rumors still led to awkward incidents. He did his best to ignore the subtle flirtations and sometimes blatant propositions he was given, and for the most part he managed to keep them at bay. Occasionally, a particularly forward woman would grab onto his arm in the middle of conversation, though he thinks he did well enough in keeping his face blank of any dislike for the action. Only when they gripped tighter, or stood closer, would he decide it best to untangle their arms and excuse himself.

When Daenerys grew tired of standing and conversing, he would double his efforts, intent on easing the weight of her duties as much as she would let him, even the mundane ones. Afterwards, he would return to the high table and attempt to wipe the look of boredom from her face, but she wasn’t always receptive to his efforts of making her smile. At this point, he thinks only time would fix them. He hopes that when their child was finally born, they would be able to enjoy the experience together.

\---------------

 _Jealousy._ And ugly emotion, it made him hurt, it made him angry.

He never thought about what came after. Of course, now that he’d sorted through his emotions, he longed to be with her, to call her his. He missed the curve of her body against his and the way she would plant kisses along his chin in the morning to wake him up. He foolishly lost that privilege, pushing away her affection because he didn’t think it should be his. But just because he’d rejected it, it didn’t mean she was obligated to pretend she wasn’t capable of affection at all.

One evening, as he sat talking to some lord from the Reach, he looked up at her, surprised to see her usually unreadable features replaced with intense, almost private, concentration. He followed her eyes, and his heart sank to his feet as he saw the target of her gaze. He was from the Stormlands, Jon vaguely remembered, a man about his age. He wasn’t stupid, he knew what her look meant, he’d been the under the heat of that stare before.

In the moment, he saw red. He wanted to take his place at her side, to force her to talk to him just so she couldn’t look at that man anymore, but he made himself to remain where he was. _She isn’t yours, anymore._

He didn’t realize that it meant she could belong to someone else. They were married, yes, but the words held no weight when they weren’t exchanged with love.

He swallowed his pride, excusing himself from the table he was seated at, mumbling something about wanting to retire.

He walked slowly towards the entrance doors, careful not to call too much attention to himself. He did anyway, he was the King after all, but not enough garner hers. He glanced at her a few times, disappointed and relieved to see that she wasn’t even looking his way.

“Have another one, lass.” The voice came from his right, the near aggressive tone catching his attention.

He looked to see a man pulling a sufficiently drunk woman onto his lap, ignoring her efforts to squirm from his grasp. “No, no, no,” she slurred. “I don’t want another, I told you.”

He knew this man too, talked to him only hours ago at the start of the meal. He had mentioned that he was unmarried, so Jon knew that this woman was not his wife.

He glanced around the pair, disappointed to see others either ignoring or snickering at the exchange.

He hesitated, not wanting to draw _her_ attention while he was so close to the exit, but he knew he could not leave this woman with a man who he suspected had ill-intentions, nor could he scold the man and leave her in the care of people who didn’t care for her well-being.

He sighed, walking up to them. At the sight of the King, the man’s eyes widened, and he pushed the woman from his lap. She nearly fell, and Jon reached out quickly to help her catch her balance.

“Come, my Lady,” he said softly. “I’ll see to it that you get to your rooms safely.”

Her eyes widened, and then she nodded profusely. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

She started walking first, seemingly eager to get away from the table, and he offered her his arm after he saw her stumble.

“Where are your rooms, my Lady?” He asked once they left the hall.

“Somewhere near the Maidenvault, Your Grace,” she mumbles. “I can’t remember.”

He turns to one of the guards at the door. “See to it that she returns to her rooms safely.”

He nods, moving forward to take her arm.

As they leave, Jon turns the opposite way and walks swiftly to his rooms, bitterness filling him as he allows his jealousy to take over.

When he arrives, he slams the door, shutting out the world.

He’s angry at himself, angry at her, though he had no right to be.

He moves to the table in his solar, pouring himself a goblet of wine, intent on getting good and drunk, ready to wallow in self-pity and torture himself with the thoughts of his wife with another man.

He chuckled darkly to himself, thinking that if he got bold enough, he could march to her rooms and interrupt them, put an end to their pleasure. He would banish the man from court, he had the power to do so. He would strip him of his titles and send him on his way. 

She would be angry at him, so very angry, but he found himself craving her anger. He wanted to see something other than emptiness in her eyes.

Halfway through his first goblet, there was a knock at his door. He considered ignoring it, the last thing he wanted to do was listen to Davos preach his wisdom or look at him with pity. The knocking came again, more persistent, and he sighed, slamming the drink onto the table and calling out for the person to enter.

The door swung open, and Tyrion walked in, his eyes scanning the space quickly before settling on Jon.

He smiled at Jon and his shoulders relaxed at the sight of him. “I knew you wouldn’t go through with it. You are Ned Stark’s son, after all.”

He narrowed his eyes. “What are you on about?”

“Her Grace didn’t appreciate your display. She sent me here to remind you to be more discreet. But unless you’re hiding her somewhere, I don’t think the request is necessary.”

“What? Hiding who?”

“Our Queen saw you escorting a woman from the hall, she only wanted me to tell you to practice discretion whenever you do such a thing. The rumors about the pair of you don’t need encouragement.”

He stood up quickly, the chair knocking to the ground behind him. “Is that what she thinks I’m doing? Perhaps you could tell her to be more discreet as well.”

He flinches at the hurt in his voice, masked by only a sheer blanket of anger.

Tyrion smirks. “I’m not a raven, Your Grace, nor am I willing to suffer the consequences of your bold words. Perhaps the message would be better received coming from you.”

He leaves, and Jon remains standing. He clenches his fists, his breathe coming out unevenly as he battles his volatile emotions. He makes a snap decision not to bury it deep and pretend he doesn’t feel it, instead he embraces all of it, the regret, the anger, the _jealousy_ , and finds the reckless strength he needs to push him out of his chambers.

He walked swiftly to her rooms, the warnings of his heart quieting with every step. He prepared himself for what he might see and reminded himself not to act rashly. Killing a man in his wife’s bed wouldn’t go over well with anybody, especially her.

He thinks of knocking, but he wants to catch her off guard. Without hesitating, he grips the handle and pushes the door open, his eyes finding her immediately.

She’s at her dressing table, and she turns her head swiftly at the sound of his entrance. She’s undressed, save for a silk robe, her hair falling down her back in waves. And to his great relief, she’s alone. It doesn’t change what he saw though. One day, she wouldn’t be alone.

“Are you going to have Tyrion give me commands now?”

“It wasn’t a command, it was a request,” her calm demeanor infuriates him. “You’re free to bed whoever you want, just as I am. I only ask that you be a bit more discreet. Even this sham of a marriage deserves a semblance of respect.”

Only at the end could he hear her anger. Deep down, he hopes it’s jealousy. Her words hurt. Their marriage may not be ideal, but he didn’t think it was a sham. He loved her, no matter how differently she felt, and he didn’t like the accusations she made when she was the one with wandering eyes. “I have no intention of disrespecting our marriage in any way. I expect you to do the same.”

To his delight, his reply stirs something in her. Her fingers grip the brush in her hands tightly before she sets it down on the vanity. She stands up and he’s unable to resist the urge to look at her. Under his gaze, she tightens her robe, and crosses her arms over her chest. “Do you expect me to believe that? I _saw_ you, Jon. Leading that woman from the great hall with her arm tucked into yours. Don’t take me for an idiot.” He thinks it is jealousy.

But he wouldn’t feed into it, he didn’t want to play games with her or take turns riling each other up until one of them lashed out. “She was _drunk_. I had the guards outside the doors see her safely to her rooms. The last thing we need is for a woman to be taken advantage of in our keep and I saw the way some of the men were watching her.”

Understanding briefly flashed across her features before she pushed it aside, settling on anger the way he did. Underneath, he could see excitement. He felt it too, finding a dark joy in being able to spot it. Either she was letting him see it, or her walls were coming down, but he wouldn’t let the opportunity go again. “I doubt she was the first one. Do whatever you want, our marriage will survive it, I assure you. But please have the decency to respect _me_ , I deserve that at least.”

She was mad if she believed what she was saying. _She’s projecting,_ he tells himself. She knew him, she knew that his respect for her was unwavering. “And you’ll do the same? Maybe you already have, and I’ve just been to oblivious to see it.”

 _Admit it,_ he begs in his head. _Have enough respect for me to admit it._

Her head tilts up, her eyes shining with defiance. “What I do isn’t any of your business. I would never have a man escort me from a hall _filled with our people_ , where anyone could see. Where my husband could see.”

To him, her reply was as good as a confirmation. He didn't want to know when it was, who it was. His heartbreak threatened to spill over, and it would eventually, but he wouldn’t let it in front of her. “You respect me enough to keep me ignorant of it, then?” The edge in his words warned him how close he was to the edge. He should leave, but he stepped closer to her, _forced_ her to see him, what she was doing to him.

She stayed where she was, watching him with dark eyes. “Yes. So long as you turn the other way, so will I. But it’s difficult to ignore when you do it right in front of me.”

He took another step forward. He couldn’t stop her from doing what she liked, but he would make it clear that she would be the only one to do it. “As I said, I have no intention of disrespecting you or our marriage. I had hoped you cared enough about me to do the same.”

Her nostrils flare as she huffs out a breath of frustration. He was close enough to feel it on his skin. “Are you jealous?”

Her soft question holds a challenge in it, daring him not to back down. He wouldn’t, he was tired of holding back in fear. She’d already hurt him beyond measure, he could handle a bit more. “Yes.”

In the next moment, her mouth was on his, her tongue tracing his bottom lip. He thought briefly of pushing her away, but it would be futile. He wanted her, and at least right now, she wanted him.

He pulled her close, he pressed his fingers into her soft skin. Her hands tangled into his hair and he was powerless to her hold on him. His own hands went to the ties of her robe and to his relief, she didn’t stop him.

His feet moved him forward and she moved with him.

“We need to stop.” They were empty words.

They should, but he wouldn’t be the one to end it. “I know.”

He pressed her into the feathered mattress and for the first time he felt the curve of their child against him. He pulled back, slowing his frenzied mind enough to feel something softer than the relentless emotions driving them.

She opened her eyes at the loss of his kiss, and she looked afraid.

She quickly averted her eyes and pushed on his shoulders. He let her take over, hoping it would alleviate her fear. He didn’t want fear between them.

The fabric of their clothing was stripped away and for the first time in months, he felt her burning skin beneath his fingertips. He felt her eyes on him as he memorized the changed of her body, a primal satisfaction bubbling in his stomach at the sight.

She may not be his anymore, but this was _theirs_. No other man could take this from him.

He could feel her eyes burning into him. He tore his own from her body and met her stare. “Dany…” _Thank you…I wish I could change it all…I’m sorry for everything...I love you…_ Now wasn’t the time to say it.

She thought so too, shaking her head.

She positioned him at her entrance and took him inside her slowly, her eyes squeezed shut. He knew what she was doing, but he wouldn’t let her. He let his hands roam her body, he gripped her waist and pushed up into her, satisfied when his name finally escaped from her lips in a breathless moan.

He felt the finality of it and the resolve in her movements. This felt like an ending, not a second chance.

Afterwards, she fell asleep in his arms, and he held her tight. He was exhausted, but he wouldn’t close his eyes. If this was the last time he would ever hold her like this, he would savor it.

As the light of morning peaked through the heavy curtains, he moved from her side, allowing himself to place a single kiss on the naked skin of her belly. He left before she woke.

\---------------

She wasn’t his. The thought still pained him, but he was growing used to it. Whether or not he was pretending, he didn’t care to find out. She was content around him now, happy even. She wanted it to be how is was in the beginning, and this was the closest they felt to it.

What they’d done was left unacknowledged, but he remembered every second of it. _At least it was me and not someone else._ It was a temporary peace, but he didn’t care. He didn’t want to explore the meaning of that night, what led to it. He knew what he felt, but his unrequited love was deserved. She must have felt this too in the beginning. If she could forget it and still care for him, he could too.

“I didn’t do it.” Her voice caught him by surprise. They’d been sitting together in silence, enjoying each other’s company as they ate.

“Do what?”

“I didn’t…no man wants to bed another man’s pregnant wife. Even if she is the Queen.”

He nearly scoffed at her explanation. No one else would be as foolish as he was and reject her advances. He allowed himself the briefest moment of relief before he brought himself back to reality. “It doesn’t matter. You were right, it’s not my place to be angry. Or jealous. I know what I’ve asked of you isn’t…fair. You should have been able to marry someone you loved.”

Her brows furrowed and he could see hurt at his answer. She wasn't expecting it. “Still, I had planned on waiting until after…Jon, what we have isn’t a _real_ marriage. You don’t need to honor anything. You left your home for me. You’re the King, even when it’s the last thing you wanted, just to keep me safe. Find whatever pleasure you can, with whoever you want. I could never hate you for it.”

She was trying to free them from one another. There was an edge of pleading to her words, asking him to help her. “And you’ll do the same?”

“I’ll do the same.”

He wouldn’t, he had no desire to. But she was tired of fighting the pull and so was he. He had to let go, for both their sakes.

He nodded in acceptance and watched at the ties that bound them together fell to their feet, torn, stretched, and lifeless.

\--------------

It would have never lasted.

As she labored with their child, he picked them back up. As she suffered through the pains, he kissed her brow, patching up what he could and tightening his hold. Midwifes surrounded them, but he paid them no attention.

“I’m so tired, Jon.” She whimpered, hours into it.

He grabbed her hand in his own, elated when she laced their fingers together. _You can do it, love. You’re so strong. I’ll be right here with you._ He didn’t hold back or mask anything, thinking that she needed _him_ fully, without any barriers between them.

For nearly fourteen hours he stayed right by her side, ignoring the suggestions that he go and eat or rest. He thinks Tyrion came by to check on them both, Davos too. He didn’t know for sure, his eyes rarely left her. She tried to push him away once, insisting that it would be hours before their child arrived. He ignored that too and strengthened the hold on his love. He wouldn’t let it slip from his fingers again.

He never imagined he would have a son. It was a dream he believed he was unworthy of for so long, but here he was, married to a Queen and a son born between them.

_What is duty compared to the feel of a newborn son in your arms?_

There was no shame in him as he gazed at his his family, his world, only pride. _This_ would be his legacy, and he realized that he didn’t care about keeping it a secret. It wasn’t fair to her, burying that part of himself because he had some sense of duty to his Northern roots.

Later, months from now, he would tell her just that. Currently, though, he only stared at his son and didn’t think about anything other than the love that was in this room.

He was a perfect blend of the both of them, and he watched as she traced a finger down his soft cheek, her eyes wet with tears and wide with disbelief. This was what he wanted more than anything, and he couldn’t let them slide back into settled contentment.

He held on tighter and prayed to the gods that she would take hold of them too.

\---------------

Aemon was tiny and delicate but holding him was second nature to Jon. Whenever he wasn’t with Dany, Jon would take him and spend hours looking at him, talking to him. A protectiveness he didn’t know he was capable of took over him, and he knew he would kill anyone who dared to hurt their child with his bare hands. When Daenerys was occupied, he would whisper fierce promises to his son, vowing that he would never leave them the way Rhaegar left his family, that he would not fail him and his mother the way Rhaegar did Elia and her children. He would burn the world for his son, but that wasn’t a new emotion. He would burn the world for Daenerys too. It was almost too perfect to be real, but the sturdy weight of his son and the soft noises he made weren’t something Jon was capable of imagining.

And Dany. She was mesmerizing as she tended to their son, and he didn’t bother trying to look away. He stayed close to them, dreading the emptiness his chambers promised, and she made no move to push him away. Still, he kept a respectable distance, not wanting to spoil their new happiness with anything heavy.

She didn’t want to share her duties as a parent with anyone other than him, and for that he was grateful. It was an intimacy he didn’t expect, but he cherished it. When Aemon needed to feed, he carried him to her. They slept when their son did, but Jon slept lightly, listening for the sounds of his fussing and hurrying to get to him before Dany tried to leave her bed. He loved caring for them both.

Eventually, they had to step out of her chambers. To his delight, Dany still didn’t seem eager to put any distance between them. In fact, she made an effort to ensure that it didn’t happen. Aemon was never left in the care of wetnurses. Their boy was quiet so long as he was full and cradled in one of their arms.

He thinks he was always meant to be a father; he couldn’t imagine ever going back to being alone or turning from it. He knows it’s also because of her. If fate was real, if he was always meant to take a wife and father children, he knew it was always meant to be with her.

Dangerously, hope took root in his chest, and he found himself hoping for another child, this time with the silver tresses of a Targaryen.

It didn’t feel so impossible.

\---------------

She nurtured his hope, she fed it with smiles that lit up her face, and touches twined with love. She encouraged his devotion, she responded to it.

Alone in her chambers, they talked about everything and nothing. She fed their son as they went over the day’s events, he rocked Aemon to sleep as they laughed at Tyrion’s feigned exasperation. He thought he saw longing in her eyes as he left her chambers to sleep in the solar. He hopes she saw it reflected in his own.

Even as they stepped out in front of the courtiers, she gave no indication that she wanted him to put distance between them.

Part of him feared it was only their son that evoked her affection, that as the months passed it would fade from her. He dreaded the moment she would suggest he returned to his own rooms. She wouldn’t be that cruel, though. She must know how real it all felt to him.

He loved to hold Aemon when they entertained their guests. She would weave her arm through his and stay by his side the whole night. Davos remarked on her actions on the rare occasion that Jon was alone, and he had to suppress a smile at the suggestion that it was possessiveness that kept her so close.

Jon hoped it was, he was hyperaware of her touch. Her fingers flexed against his arm whenever he was complimented, she stepped closer as women declared that their son was ‘just as handsome as his father’. _You have no reason to worry, love_ , he wanted to say. He was hers and he would be for the rest of his life.

\---------------

Weeks passed, but things remained the same. He loved her, she had to know, and he thinks she loved him too.

Worry peaked around the corner of his bliss, reminding of all the things that could rip it apart. They made a promise before to forget, to move on. He hated that he didn’t fight it as soon as the words left her mouth, he hated even more that he agreed to it. 

Did she believe that he meant it?

He looked down at Aemon, the boy sleeping peacefully despite all the noise around. _Did she think he would turn away from this?_

There was a loud clanging as a goblet was knocked off a table, causing Aemon to shift in his arms, and Jon’s heart melted as his nose scrunched up in discomfort. _He has her nose._

His son settled back down into an unbothered slumber, and Jon’s eyes sought his wife amongst the crowd of people.

He spotted her laughing, her hand on the shoulder of a familiar dark-haired man. _Lonmouth,_ he remembered bitterly. It seemed like a lifetime ago. So much had changed since then, but apparently not enough. She had his full attention and he was looking up at her with desire. Jon hated him.

The worry he felt over his shoulder turned to misery, and he prepared himself to settle into it. _So long as she’s happy_ , he supposed, but he knew deep inside that he would end up fighting it. _He_ could make her happy if she let him, if she gave him the chance to correct his mistakes. He would say his piece and leave the fate of them in her hands.

As if she could feel his eyes on her, she looked up, the sweet smile on her face morphing into confusion. His misery was probably obvious.

The easy happiness she had only moments before leaves her, a serious look taking over as she wraps up her conversations and climbs the steps up to them. She sat next to him, her face softening as steals a glance at Aemon before returning her attention to him.

“Should we retire?” She asks him. There was a sadness in her voice, and he wonders if this would have been the night she asked him to return to his own bed.

He didn’t want to be the source of her sadness anymore. “I’ll take him,” he offered, readying himself for defeat if she took it. “You can stay if you wish.”

“I want to retire,” she insisted. She stood up, gently pulling his elbow. “Come with me.”

He allows himself to feel the relief coursing through him. It was another chance, another opportunity to tell her before she strayed from their marriage.

They said their goodbyes, but Jon’s mind was elsewhere. He just wanted to leave, to return to the room where his dreams were intact and still possible.

As they walk down the empty halls together, Aemon squirms in his arms again and she immediately turns her attention to him, leaning into Jon as she hums softly to their son. After he’s quieted, Jon can feel her eyes on him and he smiles at her, pretending everything was alright.

He laid Aemon down in his cot, and as soon as he was settled, she surprised him by wrapping her arms around him. Worry left him, jealousy left him, and all he could feel was love. He pulled her closer, breathing in the scent of her hair as she laid her head against his chest.

“He really is perfect.” She says softly after a few peaceful moments.

 _Of course, he is, you’re his mother._ He nods, telling himself that he should risk heartbreak if this was the other possibility. He tightens his hold on her, thinking that if he held her tight enough, she would like the feel of his arms around her and decide to stay in them forever. “Did you ever learn how to stop?”

“No.” Her answer was immediate and strong, her eyes conveying a sureness that soothed his aching heart.

It gave him the push he needed. “Do you still want to?”

“You know I don’t,” she replied, looking at him in near disbelief. “And you? Are you going to stop pretending?”

“I already have,” he replied simply. He would apologize later for all the hurt he caused between them, but he needed her to hear the simple truth now. “But I think you know that.”

Tears shined in her eyes, but they didn’t fall. Her smile was soft but bright. “I do.”

He stepped back to turn and fully face her. Her face was open, her emotions laid bare between them. It felt like a dream again, only this time she was awake in it, calling him forward to take what was his. He answered, his lips meeting hers in a tender kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed!

**Author's Note:**

> Y'all I actually birthed boatbaby in this one lol ;). Also, she was barely in it, but I don't mind writing a nice Sansa. Jon's actions have little to no explanation here, but you can assume it's the standard, "I'm uncomfortable with our shared blood. Oh no, wait, I'm not. I love you." I thought about getting into it a bit more but then this would be long af and I wasn't prepared to write something like that. Jon POV, maybe?
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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